The Stars Should Weep
by Violet Redmoor
Summary: This is sort of sequel to Fearing the Worst,written from Sirius' pov inside Azkaban his thoughts and memories about what went wrong


Disclaimer: I'm not J K Rowling, I don't own Harry Potter, the characters or the world, and this is just me playing around with stories I love.

Rating: PG

Summary: Sirius' thoughts not long after he has been put in Azkaban

A/N: This is a sequel-ish to Fearing the Worst, another stream of consciousness from Sirius. Enjoy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I will die in this cell. Starve to death, perhaps, or maybe fade away through sheer misery. Can you die of misery? One day there will be nothing left for the dementors to steal and nothing left for me to cling to, and I would rather die than turn into a mindless, thoughtless wreck like some in here.

If I die, the truth dies with me. I have one wish left, and that is to see Peter pay. I was too late to save Lily and James; the panicked flight through the cold and the dark was in vain, but I will avenge them if it is the last thing I do. I do not care if Dumbledore goes to his grave convinced he put James and Lily's killer behind bars, or if my tombstone reads "murderer". I do not care if the world thinks Sirius Black one more Death Eater, one more turncoat and traitor in a war when no one knew who to trust, but I will see Peter pay.

Is it greedy to ask for two wishes? I would curse Peter to my dying breath if I thought I could make the words somehow carry through stone, across the miles of water and earth and reach whatever hiding place he has found. But if I were to be granted a second wish, I wish you knew the truth, Remus.

You have forgiven much over the years. There has been so much to forgive! But not even I could ask you to forgive the deaths of James and Lily. Is that what you think I was saying? Even I am not so heartless.

So sorry, Re. All that I could take the time to scribble when I returned home to find the flat dark and empty; I forgot you were on duty that night, that you would not be there to share my sorrow and my rage as you had shared everything else. If I had only waited, you would have hunted Peter with me, and it would not have been my voice alone crying the truth unheard. A terrible fate to wish on you, but selfish creature that I am, I cannot help but wish it.

So sorry, Re. Sorry I did not trust you; sorry I did not come back that evening when I promised I would; sorry I could not wait for you when I did return from the ruin of Godric's Hollow. Sorry for the full moons alone, for the broken heart, for the shattered life you must rebuild. But now I rot in here, and the world _knows _I sold the Potters to Voldemort and murdered Peter Pettigrew and the twelve hapless Muggles who got in the way. What will you make of that note?

Why do I even ask? What could you make of it, but that I had received my orders from Voldemort and knew I was about to tear your world apart. An apology for the death of my almost-brother and your dear friend. An apology for years of deception, for a double life with you no more than a tool of my pretence. I would like to think you know, in your heart, that I would never betray you all in that way, but I can never fool myself. So sorry, Re.

The screams are getting worse again. They brought some new prisoners in yesterday, and the noise seems to have set off many of the others. Howls bounce off the dank stone walls, howls of sorrow and despair; of madness more often than not.

I could join them. I could scream, throw myself to the floor and sob in wretched misery. I could let myself go, stop trying to fight...

But every time I close my eyes, I see James. White as bone, a trickle of scarlet congealing on the side of his face, a look on his face that I had seen far too often, one of determined terror. His eyes staring up at the sky, but glazed over and not seeing the stars where his roof had been, as I could, not seeing the wreckage and rubble that was left of his house... He did not have to see Lily lying there with the same sightless stare, collapsed over the empty cot where she had tried to protect Harry...

I cannot bear it. That sight will drive me mad sooner than the dementors will, so I must fight, I must force myself to stay thinking, stay rational. These thin robes are no protection against the seeping chill that the dementors bring with them; the thick stone walls and iron bars do not block the sound of their eerie rattling breath, now closer, now further away, as they patrol the corridors. Closer and louder again now, and my breath steams in the air in front of me, the meagre light from the torches outside my cell is leeched away.

"No, no, not again, leave me alone... No, no, no..."

"Be quiet, you fool, shut up, shut up, shut up..." Someone is moaning, someone is clawing at my face; it takes a moment to realise that both are me. It is my voice begging the dementors to leave me be, my hands scrabbling at my face to shut my mouth, to stop the inane pleading...

I cannot bear this horror. Maybe I can still think now, in patches, but this place will drive everyone mad sooner or later. This is my punishment for what I have done; I will go mad, I will turn into some drooling screaming idiot like the others I hear. My body will be locked in this hideous island prison but Sirius Black will no longer exist. This is my punishment, this is what I deserve...

No! No, I am innocent! My only crime is stupidity, blindness. I should have seen what Peter was. I should have trusted you, Remus. I should not have forced James to listen to me. I should have faced up to my responsibilities. I killed them. I as good as killed them...

No! It was Peter. Peter, Wormtail, the little rat, the cheating, lying, traitorous scum, who sold one best friend to Voldemort and then framed the other for the crime. And who would believe Sirius Black, brother to a dead Death Eater, son of a family long known for its association with the Dark Arts? Who would believe Sirius Black, when Dumbledore himself knew I had been the Secret Keeper? When countless Muggles will swear they saw me kill the little rat?

After hours of searching, hours of trailing him, I have finally caught up with Peter. It is a crowded street in Muggle London but I cannot allow him to get away. If I go to Azkaban for this then so be it, but Peter will pay for what he has done. For Lily and James and Harry, Peter will pay. For my dead best friend and his dead wife, for my orphaned godson who will now be brought up by the hateful Dursleys, for every bit of information he has passed to his evil master.

"Peter!" I cry. "Peter!" He whirls around; he looks as scared as I have ever seen him but then...

"Lily and James, Sirius; how could you?"

What? Am I wrong yet again? Have I misjudged yet another friend? But the calculated gleam in his eyes gives him away; this is yet another ruse. He has thought of this in advance, he has anticipated that I will come after him. Oh, no, Peter, you do not win this time.

"Lily and James, Sirius!" he shouts again. People are starting to look at us; Muggles are staring. As I reach for my wand there is a sudden explosion. I am deafened, blinded; rubble is showering down around me and I have to shield my face. I hear screams, more screams. As the dust settles nothing I see makes sense. There is blood and twisted remnants of flesh, shards of pavement. All I can do is look around for Peter, but he is nowhere to be seen.

Slowly the blur of red and grey and brown forms a coherent picture. Water is spewing out of a huge crater before me; there are Muggles lying amongst the wreckage, some clearly dead. And then I see a handful of rats edging their way around the broken sewer, running for safety, and suddenly I realise. Suddenly it hits me. Peter was too clever for me! I am choking for breath and before I know what is happening I am laughing, laughing fit to burst. I may well laugh myself to death; there are tears streaming down my face and I can't stop. Can't stop laughing, though all around me there are people screaming. I hear the first cracks of wizards Apparating to deal with the disaster and though I know I am doomed I still cannot stop laughing, laughing while the Muggles scream...

The screams still ring out, and as the rattling breath of the dementors draws away once more I collapse to my knees in the dark, cold cell in Azkaban. I am not laughing now; the tears that stream down my cheeks are not of hysteria but bitter, bitter despair.

Countless times I have been there when Peter escapes. Countless times have I been too slow to stop him killing all those innocents. Countless times I have stood and laughed in hysterical shock while the Ministry wizards surround me, while I am arrested for crimes I did not commit. The dementors do not pick which horrors they leave me to relive – there were more than enough to choose from in my last few hours of freedom alone – but of all my worst memories, that is the one I see most often.

And though every time I am driven to tears, it drives home the truth. The one thing that keeps me going. Though I would give anything not to walk down that street again, it reminds me that I am here for crimes I did not commit and that the guilty one still goes free. Wormtail must pay. Even if I die in here and must return as a vengeful ghost.

Hagrid looked liked he had seen a ghost, when I met him in the ruins of James' house. Clambering over the collapsed walls with a blanket-wrapped bundle in his hands.

"Give Harry to me, Hagrid. I'm his godfather... did you know? I'll look after him."

"Can't, Sirius." He's short with me – no doubt through grief – but there is no shaking him. "Dumbledore's orders. I'm not to hand him over to no one."

"But... but... James wouldn't have named me Harry's guardian unless he wanted me to look after him..."

"I'm sorry, Sirius, honest, but Dumbledore was very clear. I'm not to give Harry to no one but him."

I want to snatch that bundle out of his massive arms, I want to take back my godson, the one thing that is left of my best friend. How can it be that I am denied this one last thing? Perhaps Hagrid sees the desperation on my face, he pats me heavily on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Sirius," he says again, and heaves a huge sigh. "I'd best be going; it's a long way..." He tails off.

"Where are you going? Maybe if I can talk to Dumbledore..." The sudden hope dies away almost as abruptly as Hagrid shakes his head.

"Can't tell yeh that. Sorry."

Realisation hits me so hard I feel short of breath. My knees collapse beneath me and I hit the ground with a thud that will no doubt leave bruises, though I scarcely feel it.

Why would Dumbledore be so insistent that Hagrid hand Harry over to no one? Why would Hagrid be forbidden to tell me where he is meeting my former Headmaster? There can only be one reason.

Dumbledore was never told of the change of plan; of the swap between myself and Peter. He thinks I was the Secret Keeper. James and Lily could not have been found by Voldemort unless the Secret Keeper gave them away. Dumbledore thinks I betrayed them. He thinks I sold them to the darkest, most evil wizard in a hundred years. Of course he could not trust Hagrid with such knowledge but no wonder he made so sure that Harry would not be given to me. He must be expecting me to try and finish off the job my "master" could not.

"Don't worry about it," I say. My voice echoes in my ears as though it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. Gone are all my hopes, all my plans. Too late to save James and Lily, forbidden from saving Harry. I cannot go to Dumbledore for help; he would turn me over to the Ministry as soon as look at me and off to Azkaban with me. I cannot turn to anyone now; I am the only one who knows the truth, the only one who can do anything.

"Sirius? Sirius!" I force myself to connect with the world once more, with the cold, starlit night under which James' house now lies a smoking ruin.

"Are yeh all righ', Sirius?"

"Yeah, yeah..." I have never been less all right, but all that matters now is that Hagrid leaves as soon as possible, that I get on with the hunt I must undertake before the Ministry come after me. I need as long a headstart as I can possibly get...

"I understand, it's not your fault. Just tell Dumbledore... tell him he knows where I am, if he changes his mind."

"Well, if you're sure..."

My mind is racing ahead. Peter will have fled as soon as word reached him of his master's failure. Hiding from his side and ours; both would kill him for what has happened here. Never the brightest, little Wormtail, but with such an incentive he will not be easy to find. I cannot use my bike; anyone could hear it coming a mile off. And Peter knows it; it will be too easy for him to avoid. No, my hunt must be by craftier means.

"... don' like to leave yeh like this, but it's a long journey, an' I need to get Harry out o' here before the Muggles come to see what happened..."

"Of course. Of course." I scarcely know what I'm saying. "Take the bike."

"What?"

"The bike. I won't be needing it any more... take it to get Harry safe."

With this new task before me my insides seem to have frozen up. I look up at the sky as Hagrid clumsily accepts my offer, lifts the bike from where I dumped it after my hasty, panicked landing. My entire world has been ripped to pieces, turned upside down and then shaken for good measure, and yet the world at large could not care less. The stars shine on uncaring; even my star, Sirius, the dog star. Why are they not weeping? Why am I not weeping? The motorbike roars into the sky.

Suddenly my vision blurs; the stars are blacking out and the sky is becoming a mouldy greyish colour. Once again I hear rattling breath withdrawing; I am back in the cell. Dry-eyed this time but still frozen.

It is too much. I cannot be forced to relive this again and again. There can be no crime on earth that deserves such a punishment, and I am innocent!

"I'm innocent! Do you hear me? Innocent! Innocent! I shouldn't be in here..."

What good will such screams do me? Shouting on deaf ears, if the dementors have ears at all. But they tear themselves from my throat whether I want them or not. I surge to my feet and grab the bars to my cell; they are too solid to rattle and I throw myself away with a wordless howl.

"No! I'm innocent, I'm innocent!" I cannot do anything; I'm helpless in this tiny grey box. Ten foot by ten foot; the walls seem to close in on me and I throw myself against them, first one and then another, until I am exhausted and I collapse to the floor in a heap of bloody rags. What am I doing to myself? Why can I not stop it? Is this another effect of the dementors?

I lack even the strength to lift my head from the floor. My vision is wavering again; I can feel my eyes closing despite my best efforts.

I will die in this cell.


End file.
